Well, this is cosy isn't it?
by KeepCalmAndKeepWriting
Summary: Eames and Arthur are kidnapped together, and despite the jokes and banter- things soon turn pretty nasty for both of them...   Sort of sequel to 'Just Guess the Bloody song, Arthur', but can be stand-alone
1. Chapter 1

**(As I said- could be a follow on from 'Just Guess the Bloody Song Arthur' for those who weren't happy with the not-so-happy ending *cough* Bethany Ruth *cough* ;)**

**(Well, as they say, it's going to get worse before it gets better m'fraid, but this one DOES have a 'Happy Ending' as it were, that I can promsie you)**

**WARNING: Swearing, and references to mild torture (hmm- can torture be mild? I'm not sure... it isn't gory at any rate)**

Eames groaned in pain. His head spun viciously, his wrists throbbed, and his cut lip stung. His arse was also completely numb from cold.

He jumped in sudden realisation that he was _not_ in his hotel room in Convent Garden. He was sitting, back against a damp, hard wall, in pitch blackness. With a tug and a low hiss, he confirmed that his hands were indeed shackled to the wall behind him. Pain was good, Eames told himself firmly, it meant that his hands were actually _there_.

Still, what the fuck?

He fought angrily with his mess of a mind to try and recollect how he had ended up in this godforsaken place. His thoughts ached, but with the brutal force of a freight train- everything came back.

Arthur. He had been with Arthur- locking up at the end of the day. He'd stayed around until late, a little unusual for him, more subdued than normal after the Episode With The IPod. He hadn't really known how to behave. They had left the building in silence, Arthur swiftly bolting the door, typing in the lock code from the outside. And then...

_Christ_ his head hurt. Eames grimaced, forcing himself to focus.

Then they had noticed the dark car on the opposite side of the road. Engine running. Then...bullets, loud bangs echoing down the silent street, and Arthur's elbow securely in his gut, propelling him into the safety of the dark alley behind them. Then Arthur, swearing furiously, joining him out of the line of fire, handing him a gun, both of them sharing the plan for the next course of action without needing to say it aloud, because they were comrades. And comrades knew how to work with each other in these sorts of situations. Then Arthur holding a gun up to Eames' head, eyes narrowed- no, not _his_ head, someone's _behind_ him. And then...nothing.

He had been kidnapped. Eames was pretty sure of that now, and swore loudly into the darkness in his anger. But if _he'd_ been abducted, what the hell had they done with-

A sudden low groan close by sent him sprawling to the side.

"Arthur? Arthur- is that you?" Eames queried the blackness, voice hushed, heart hammering against his ribs.

"Yeah," came the strained reply a few seconds later from somewhere over to his left.

Eames' breath left him in one gusty exhale of relief. "Shit- you scared me for a minute there darling- what the fuck happened?"

"...knocked you out... in the car...t-tried to fight but-" Arthur's voice was broken and disjointed, shaking violently- lacking all composure that was a given when it came to the Pointman. Eames' blood ran cold. He shifted upright again, moving towards the sound of Arthur's quavering voice until his knee connected with something warm and hard. The thing flinched.

"Arthur-" Eames started, aware of how unsure he sounded, "Arthur- how badly are you hurt?"

"..been better," came the whispered mumble.

Eames fought the instant curl of panic in his gut. He _had_ to stay in control.

"Don't fuck around with me Arthur-"

"Eames." Arthur's voice was stronger now, loud in the quiet darkness. "I'm not going to die on you in the next hour, so stop getting yourself so worked up." He sounded authoritative now, a little more like himself, despite the slight shake to his voice.

"Right. Okay. Good- 'cause you know Cobb would bloody _murder_ me if I turned up with you dead, not that we might ever 'turn up' at all, cause fuck know's where we are-" Eames wasn't sure why he said it- he was too preoccupied trying to work out what injuries Arthur was hiding from him.

"Eames," said Arthur again, with an edge of exasperation, "just try and calm down- alright?"

"Who says I'm not fucking calm right now?" Eames shot back.

"You always swear more when you're stressed- right now, you're stressed."

"Oh- and does that make me a bad person?" Eames' voice was rising in his anger, "Weak to be feeling _some _sort of panic right now? Because I can _see_ the way this is fucking going to go Arthur- even if you can't, and just because I'm not some sort of _robot_ incapable of emotion-"

"Don't." Arthur's voice was quiet and deadly, "Say things. Like that. I happen to know _exactly_ how you feel right now, perhaps a little more acutely, but panicking will _not_ help the situation- that I can guarantee."

Eames bit his lip, not wanting to argue back because he _knew_ Arthur was right, and he was already feeling guilty, and why did Arthur have to be so bloody mature?

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound their heavy breathing. Arthur shifted, and Eames felt the movement, because his knee was still in contact with Arthur's shin.

"Sorry." Eames muttered, because it had to be said.

"Don't worry abo- _**shit.**_" Arthur spat the swear word, taking in a sharp breath and pulling away from Eames abruptly.

"What? What's wrong? Arthur?" Eames asked, frantic, automatically trying to move towards him and groaning in pain and frustration as the shackles on his wrists caught his sudden movement. He could do nothing but sit back helplessly and listen to Arthur fight to try and steady his breathing.

"Just- just a broken rib. I think," Arthur finally managed through clenched teeth. Eames closed his eyes, wincing slightly at the thought. He didn't know what to say that could make this situation any better, so he kept his mouth closed.

The quiet returned, Eames' head continued to pound relentlessly, until-

"Arthur- what actually happened? I don't remember much-" Eames asked softly.

"We were ambushed," said Arthur coldly. "I hadn't noticed anyone in the alleyway when I pushed you into it- someone knocked you out with a bit of lead piping. I shot him." Arthur was truly merciless, and once again, Eames thanked his lucky stars he wasn't Arthur's enemy. Well, not a proper one at any rate.

"Then- then they tried to bargain for you." Eames stiffened. He hadn't expected this.

"They offered to let me go if I left you to them, but when I refused- they started offering money. Got up to about $3 million."

Eames chest swelled with some sudden, unexpected emotion, his eyes stinging. He furiously blinked the wetness away, even though Arthur could see nothing. Arthur hadn't left him- or given up on him, even when that particular course of action was by far the better option for his personal well-being. Eames felt a strong desire to hug the man sitting next to him in that moment, but relented, knowing not only that it was probably impossible with his hands tied, but also that it would only make everything that much more complicated.

"$3 million? I'm only worth that much? To be quite honest, I'm a tad offended..." said Eames lightly with a smile.

"You can't buy _people," _Arthur replied- his tone one of such anger and disgust, Eames couldn't help but love him that little bit more. "I told them that, but-well, they were rather insistent- and took me out as well."

Eames winced. "What, they knocked you out with the lead piping too?"

Arthur scoffed, almost disdainfully, and it was so _Arthur,_ even in this dark, cold, cell that Eames grinned.

"No, I'm not as much as a lightweight as you," he replied coolly, but Eames could hear the smile behind his words- and it was an added comfort.

"Lightweight? Me? Says the man who can barely manage more than 4 units of alcohol before passing out-"

"That is a load of bull Mr. Eames, as you well know, and it just so happens that, unlike _some_, I try to keep within the recommended daily alcohol limits so as not to drive myself to an early grave."

"Oh the irony," Eames chuckled, "Says the man who illegally steals secrets from some of the most powerful people in the world for a living, and is currently being held captive in some dank shithole in the middle of God-knows- where."

Arthur laughed quietly, and Eames felt a warm feeling in his stomach. Unfortunately, the gentle chuffs of Arthur's laughter quickly descended into a coughing fit. Eames stayed silent, listening with anguish as Arthur fought to control his breathing, sucking in great lungfuls of air, as though he was being suffocated.

"Breathe Arthur," Eames told him firmly, "Relax, don't fight it, breathe."

Arthur seemed to calm down after that, slowing his breathing, falling back against the wall, closer than he had been earlier- shoulder just touching Eames'.

Eames reached out with his foot until it touched Arthur's leg. It was a pretty pathetic gesture of comfort, but it was all about Eames could manage at the moment.

"You know I would never really shoot you in the back, Eames," said Arthur suddenly, voice weak and strained from the coughing, "never sell you out I mean, whatever crap you get into, no matter what the situation is- you act like a bloody arse half the time, but I wouldn't _actually_-"

"Of course I know you wouldn't," Eames tells him sincerely before Arthur can work himself into a panic and start coughing again. "I trust you completely," he adds, a little more quietly, and it's scary just how _much he truly _believes that. How much faith he has in one person. How he wouldn't think twice about giving his life for Arthur and how it doesn't surprise that much to learn the feeling is mutual.

Jesus Christ.

But just as Eames starts trying to formulate these feelings into words that may be the most important ones of his frankly, _pathetic_ life, so he _really_ doesn't want to screw up- there is the ominous sound of footsteps approaching.

Eames feels Arthur stiffen next to him, muscles tensing-" Don't tell them anything Eames, no matter what they do, don't give _anything_ away-" Arthur murmurs under his breath, rushing over the words in an effort to get them out in time- and Eames is frowning, opening his mouth to argue, because he knows the drill, and _of course_ he wouldn't fucking give anything away-

But then the door opens.

"Evening Gentlemen- I think you've waited long enough, so let's get this show on the road shall we?" It takes a few seconds for Eames' eyes to adjust to the blinding light filtering in from the corridor- before he can just makes out the figure of a man. He's small and stout, silhouetted in the doorway, smoke furling out from his mouth, a lit cigarette in one hand, a Glock in the other.

"Ah- death by clichés- a particularly gruesome way to die I'm told, just get it over with and save me the suffering," Eames says coolly, and he is unable to hide his grin when he hears Arthur snort with laughter next to him.

"Very funny Mr. Eames- although I'm not sure I'm the person you should be poking fun at- considering your... _situation_." The man replies smoothly, stepping into the room, followed by three men who could only be described as, Eames thought with disdain, Armed Thugs. Really, the crime business needed to update itself. It was lacking imagination.

A switch was flicked, and Arthur flinched next to him as the small cell was filled instantly with cruel artificial light. Eames turned to look at him, and whatever he might have said, some joking comment, a few words of comfort- died in his throat because _Jeez,_Arthur was a complete and utter _mess._ He was slumped against the wall, chest rising and falling in shallow, quick breaths, his white shirt stained with dirt and blood, completely soaked through in some places (in particular concentrated across his left shoulder, Eames wondered distractedly if the bullet was still lodged in his collar bone),his lip bleeding, hair disarrayed and falling over his swollen blackened right eye-

"_Shit Arthur,"_ Eames breathed, because he really couldn't think of anything more eloquent to say. Arthur was so precise, controlled and frankly _beautiful_ most of the time- it was awful to see him like this.

"Not as bad as it looks," Arthur muttered back and caught Eames' eyes with some fierce emotion that said, quite clearly_-' Shut the fuck up_.'

Eames shut up, but couldn't help continuing to let his gaze trace every inch of Arthur's injured, battered body.

The man coughed, loudly, in an obvious attempt to bring the attention back to him. Arthur looked up straight away, wincing again at the harsh light. "Mr. Eames..." the man drawled, and he sounded so smug, and faintly amused and _happy_, that it made Eames' blood boil. He took his time about moving his gaze purposefully slowly away from Arthur and back to the man. The idiot was smiling almost gleefully.

"No doubt would have kept on fighting till he got himself killed," said the man conversationally, gesturing to Arthur, who scowled darkly back at him. "That was, until, someone held a gun to your head," and he turned to Eames, expression one of mild curiousity.

Eames stiffened, but said nothing, holding the man's gaze. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur spit blood onto the floor in disgust.

"It's called loyalty. You should try it sometime, makes life a whole lot easier knowing that not everyone is going to double-cross you at the next opportune moment," Eames told him, unable to hide the slight shake of anger in his voice. The man's grin grew even larger.

"But still- in your line of work? It's really quite fascinating... the rash decisions you take, the ease at which you give away your emotions- let your feelings betray you-"

"Cut the crap. What do you want." Arthur's voice was low, demanding, and, even tied up on the floor, as terrifying as hell. Eames felt a swell of pride.

The man looked a little affronted, his brow furrowed, before his features smoothed out – expressionless.

"I want the Morgan Code."

And now Eames knew they were _really_ in deep shit. He tried to cover the immediate panic with an innocent shrug.

"'fraid I can't help you there... Arthur?" he turned expectantly to the Pointman.

"What makes you think we have it?" Arthur asked the man, completely ignoring Eames.

"I know about the Stein job. You got the Code just before it fell apart. You saw it- you remember it. I need it. You tell me the Code now- you can go. You don't? You die. It's really not that complicated." The man looked between the two of them, smiling slightly in that creepy way of his that made Eames feel slightly ill. He certainly felt ill now.

The Morgan Code was bad news. Ultimately bad. Deepest-shit-on-the-planet bad. Eames could remember the job clearly. The Code... well- it was a lot of characters, but he could certainly remember the last part. The last dozen letters and numbers that had jumbled almost incoherently from Arthur's bloodied lips as he clutched a bullet wound in his side, dying in Eames' arms- still trying to commit the stupid thing to memory. Still- even a few characters in the right order would cut this psychos' possible options down by another million or so, and with the proper computer programming... Eames shuddered. The Morgan Code allowed complete access to the WPD programme. World Personnel Database. Also known as, fucking huge computer software that held even the most intimate of factual details of nearly every single living person on the planet. It could tell you James Cobb's Kindergarten teacher's first name, it held all the details about the 7 art prizes Ariadne had won while at High School, about how Arthur's sister had died-

Yeah. It was a pretty impressive thing. No wonder this jacked up Crime Lord wanted it.

"So, what will your choice be? Are you willing to co-operate?" The man asked, dropping his cigarette to the floor, casual as you please, as though they weren't discussing his ever so cliché plans for World Domination.

Eames sent a sidelong look at Arthur, who caught his eye for the briefest of seconds. The look in Arthur's dark eyes was instant confirmation.

Eames turned back to the man, who was watching them intently.

"Go to hell," said Eames simply.

The man's mouth tightened in a hard line.

"I'd like you to know Mr. Eames, before we start, that your '_witty_ _comebacks'_ have brought you all that you deserve- we'll start with _you_ first."

Eames had expected this. The man wanted the Code. He and Arthur were two of the dozen or so people on the planet that knew about it- let alone had a clue what the Code actually was. Well, if this guy was going to torture him for information first- that probably wasn't such a bad thing, seeing the state Arthur was in. He could handle it, he told himself. He had done this sort of thing before.

Still- when two of the armed thugs began to approach, Eames couldn't help the bubble of fear twist in his gut. He concentrated on tensing every muscle in his body. These things always hurt less if you were prepared for them.

"I know more about the Code than Eames," Arthur said suddenly, in a manner that might have sounded condescending if his voice hadn't cracked at the end. Eames shot Arthur a warning look. Was he _trying_ to get himself killed?

_No,_ a little voice trilled the back of his mind, _he's trying to not get __**you **__killed. _

The man smiled again, in that faintly amused way. "Oh, I know," his voice was oily with smugness, "but I also happen to know that Mr. Eames here has not had the same interrogation... _experience_ you have had in the past Arthur- and therefore, will no doubt, be an easier nut to crack..."

Eames raised an eyebrow- because this man clearly didn't know about the time he'd stormed a building, killed all the projections and taken a mark hostage with 3 fucking _bullets_ in his leg and without the use of his firing arm. He prided himself on being- well, not a tough _nut_ to crack, more like a fucking chunk of _granite. _ And Arthur? Interrogation _experience_? He knew the Pointman had been in the Military- but he'd never envisaged him getting caught, let alone tortured.

"Eames- remember what I said- say _nothing,"_ and Eames looked across at Arthur who was eyeing him in earnest, a flicker of emotion in his eyes- was it fear? And now Eames really was worried, because Arthur, as a rule, didn't get scared. "No matter what happens- say-"

But he was cut off because one of the thugs had kicked him hard in the broken ribs. Arthur didn't cry out exactly, merely doubled over- eyes screwing up tightly against the pain.

And Eames saw red. He fought with his bindings, cutting his hands even more, but not registering the warning ache in his left wrist, because normally, the equation went something like this: Arthur + someone causing him pain = Instant Death.

"Fucking bastards-" Eames gritted out, eyes not leaving Arthur's agonised expression.

"Tut-tut Mr. Eames," murmured the man quietly from the other side of the room, "When will it enter that thick skull of yours that every time you open your mouth without thinking- someone is going to get hurt?" And to prove his point, Arthur received another blow to the chest.

Eames bit his lip so hard to restrain himself from saying anything that he drew blood- the coppery taste bitter on his tongue.

"Get him up," snapped the man to the thugs- who abruptly took off Arthur's bindings and yanked him roughly to his feet. Arthur didn't make a sound. The man gestured to someone outside, and two more men entered- carrying a metal tub filled with water.

Eames heart dropped like a stone.

_No fucking way._

"I thought you were going to start with me?" Eames asked hoarsely, watching as the tub was dumped in the middle of the room, and Arthur was dropped carelessly onto the floor next to it.

The man grinned, "Oh but we are Mr. Eames, we certainly are..." and Arthur's head was abruptly forced into the water.

* * *

><p>The man had been right. Because this was worse than torture. Worse than any physical pain Eames had ever known. It was as though someone was ripping out each of his internal organs one by one. After about 10 minutes, or maybe an hour, or a day, Eames lost track of time- he felt his wrist give out. Something broke. Despite the maddening pointlessness of it- he still yanked against the bindings that held him back- because he was so <em>desperate<em> to get to Arthur, to shoot these fucking thugs- no, to _torture_ them like they were torturing him.

It wasn't a very inspiring torture method. Hold his head under until he starts to pass out- then bring him out- let him drag in a few lungfuls of oxygen, before repeating the process. Eames said nothing at the start- fearing it would only make things worse, but after they reached a point when Eames realised it couldn't _get_ any fucking worse- he forgot about keeping quiet. He called the man every curse under the Goddamn Sun and in various languages at the top of his voice, but it did nothing.

But then-

Then Arthur's struggles became less violent. His breaths afterwards were less needy. His eyes stayed closed. And Eames was sure that his exhausted body had finally had enough. Arthur was going to _die_ if he didn't do anything.

"ALRIGHT!," Eames yelled at last, as Arthur was plunged back into the water for the millionth time, "alright- just, stop it- please..." And Eames knew he would beg, grovel, kiss this man's _fucking shoes _just to get them to stop. Because this, _watching_, was killing him.

The man signalled, and Arthur was hauled back out, propped haphazardly up against the side of the tub. He was as white as a sheet, his lips faintly blue from the cold water, his dark hair plastered across his forehead. And his eyes firmly closed.

"Well then Mr. Eames- finally feeling up to sharing?" asked the man, and Eames shook his head, his mind raging war against itself at what to do, furiously blinking away sudden, unexpected tears.

"Put him back in," said the man coldly, and the thugs made to lift Arthur up again-

"No! No- okay, okay, I know a few numbers, just- please, let him have a break, yeah?" And Eames hated the way he sounded so weak, and _pleading_, but he couldn't, he couldn't just _sit_ here and watch Arthur die-

Arthur's eyes flickered open, and he met Eames' gaze. He gave a small, feeble, bloody _heartbreaking _half-smile. _I'm alright_, it said.

_No you're fucking __**not**_, Eames wanted to reply furiously, but the man hadn't noticed their exchange- so he decided to keep quiet.

"Well? I can't wait around all day!" The man was impatient now, and advanced on Eames- holding the gun up to Eames' head. "Give me something to work with- or your '_friend'_ here will be back in the water," his voice was low and clearly meant to be threatening- but God, Eames would rather listen to it for the rest of his life than _ever_ hear Arthur struggling for breath again.

Arthur didn't seem to have been aware for the first part of the conversation- and was suddenly moving, struggling against the thugs holding him down, "Eames- don't-," he managed, his voice strained, "Think of Phillipa and-" and he was silenced with a fist to the stomach.

Eames glanced over the man's shoulder, to where Arthur was gasping. Their eyes met. The look in Arthur's dark eyes was strong and resolute, despite the rest of him. '_Don't. You. Even. Fucking. Think. About. It" _Eames could practically _hear_ his voice, and of course, he was right. Arthur was always right. If these men got the Code- they'd _both_ be as good as dead, and everyone they knew would be in danger. Anyone wanting to blackmail Cobb could get exactly what they wanted if they took his children and used them as leverage. Phillipa was only 7 years old for fuck's sake.

Eames made his decision for the final time.

He spat in the man's face.

"Piss off." He said.

The man turned purple with anger- but the smile on Arthur's face, dimples and all, more than made up for it. Arthur gave him a slight nod, and despite everything, Eames felt a warm glow in his gut, because that was the only confirmation he needed to know that Arthur thought he'd done the right thing.

The man turned away, shaking in anger. "WELL?" he roared at the thugs, "What the fuck are you doing just **standing **there? Get him BACK UNDER!"

And Arthur was forced back into the tub.

Time passed, and although Eames said nothing, he couldn't deny the fact Arthur was definitely getting weaker. He didn't seem to care anymore. And then, quite suddenly, when he was plunged into the water yet again- he didn't struggle.

He didn't fight it.

He didn't move at all.

"Err- boss?" one of the thugs asked warily, gesturing to Arthur's still form. "I think he's dead."

_no _

_No_

_NO_

Eames stared at Arthur's body, because he was _**NOT**_ dead- because, well, he just couldn't be, not after all this time, not after everything he'd been through, _they'd _been though-

The pulled him up out of the tub, water dripping from his hair, his face slack, but he still wasn't moving.

"Arthur-" Eames croaked out, _please, please, please let him be alive- if there is any justice in this fucking world- let the only person who has actually ever meant anything to me still be breathing-_

The thugs dropped Arthur down on the floor, his limp limbs twisting beside him. Eames stared. And stared. Because Arthur's chest wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing.

Oh God.

The man surveyed Arthur with a look of- what was it?- _disdain_.

"Hmm... From the reports of Mr. Levine I have heard- I thought he'd last longer than _that...",_ and the scorn in his voice was obvious. He made to nudge Arthur's body with his foot, but the blistering anger _coursing _throughout Eames' entire body was no longer able to be restrained-

"Don't you _fucking touch_ him-" Eames snarled- voice shaking, but the man was already backing away, holding his hands up in mock surrender, a sneer playing on his lips. The sneer grew into a grin.

"Actually, this has turned out _better_ than I'd planned," said the man slowly, and he regarded Eames with a look of concentration.

"Let Mr. Eames go," he said suddenly.

Eames would've been surprised, but he couldn't keep his attention off the fact Arthur was _still not breathing-_

The nearest thug reached forward and roughly undid the cuffs around Eames' bloody wrists.

Eames stared at the man.

The man casually gestured to the door.

Eames held his gaze.

He didn't move.

The man smirked again. "You're more loyal than your reputation suggests Mr. Eames- I will be back in an hour to after you have had time to _mull _over your options, and we'll see how you feel about sharing then... I do hope _dear_ Arthur, ah, _comes round_ shall we say, for another go?" And he gave a small, cruel chuckle, before turning on his heels and leaving the room, jerking a hand at the thugs to follow him.

The door closed with an ominous bang.

A lock clicked.

"_Arthur_," Eames breathed, and scrambled over to the young man's body, one hand reaching for his pulse, the other gingerly pushing back the dark, damp hair from Arthur's forehead, eyes frantically searching the pale face for something, _anything_-

And then Arthur took a sharp, deep shuddering breath, and his eyes flickered open.

Eames leapt back with a, he pained to admit it, yelp of surprise because _shit_.

And Arthur was desperately dragging in more lungfuls of air, and twisting himself, wincing, up onto his elbow to cough out mouthfuls of water, gasping, _drowning-_

"Fucking HELL Arthur!" Eames cried, "What the fuck are you doing! You're fucking _dead_ for Christ's sake?" He gaped at Arthur in horror.

"S-sorry about that, I'll d-die properly next time," and despite the fact Arthur's lungs seemed to be full of water, his voice was unimaginably dry and cracked. He flopped onto his back on the concrete, closing his eyes, a hand reaching gingerly for his injured ribs.

"_Christ," _Eames breathed, backing up against the wall and slumping against it, his pulse thundering through him, heart hammering in his ribs, muscles aching with adrenalin.

They were silent for a few moments, Arthur trying to control his erratic breathing, Eames trying to get his body to relax, until-

"Are you alright?" Arthur's voice was barely above a whisper, but sounded loud in the quiet.

Eames looked up at him, his expression one of bewilderment, and then he laughed, but it was a harsh and unnatural sound that made Arthur frown.

"Am _I _alright? Asks the man who has, let's remind ourselves shall we, been fucking _dead_ for the past 5 minutes? Who, has, by all accounts, been _tortured _for hours repeatedly, despite numerous injuries and bloody broken rib, and then fucking _passed out_-"

"Eames," said Arthur softly, but it was enough to silence him. Eames gave him a look of incredulity, before shaking his head in disbelief and covering his face with shaking hands.

"I'm not dead. I didn't pass out. They weren't going to stop until I _did_ die- so I pretended, I held my breath- I thought you'd work it out... I'm sorry-" he broke off into coughs, but Eames knew he wasn't finished, "I'm sorry I couldn't warn you..."

"But you didn't have to do _that_ surely?" Eames asked weakly, voice muffled in his hands, trying to force the painful image of Arthur _not moving, not breathing, not __**living**_ out of his mind.

"It was the only way," Arthur rasped, insistent.

"Well, you very nearly succeeded in giving me a fucking heart attack, so congratu-fucking-lations..." he muttered tersely, but when he looked up, Arthur was turned to face him, and smiling just enough to crease the corners of his eyes and show his dimples.

"Won't happen again...I hope," he said quietly with amusement.

"I bloody hope not," said Eames darkly, pulling his hands away fully to eye him seriously.

Arthur grinned again- and _Jesus_ why did Eames chest have to clench so painfully every time Arthur did that?- and gave a small chuckle, before breaking off into racking coughs again that shook his entire body. His features tightened in pain as he fought to suppress it.

"Hey, hey..." Eames moved over swiftly, instinctively, lifting Arthur gently up into a sitting position and pulling him next to him. Arthur kept coughing, and seemed to be paniking that he couldn't breathe properly, eyes wide.

Eames lightly placed a large, warm hand on Arthur's lower back, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb against the soaking, bloodstained shirt that clung to his skin.

"Relax Arthur- it's alright, I've got you, just breathe..." he murmured softly into Arthur's damp hair.

He took Arthur's hand in his own, and waited patiently until the coughing subsided.

They sat in the quiet, Eames frowning a little at Arthur's irregular breathing, until Arthur finally gave in and relaxed completely into Eames' side, leaning against him.

Eames tensed only briefly, before happily allowing Arthur to lean against his shoulder, the man was _fucking freezing_ after all. Sharing body heat made perfect, logical sense. Eames grinned at that. He knew this would be the excuse Arthur would use later.

"You're shivering," he told Arthur gently, holding up their hands and turning them over so the goosebumps across Arthur's wrist were visible. "We should get you out of those wet clothes," he added casually.

Arthur scoffed. "Not a chance Mr. Eames."

"Well don't blame me when you die of fucking hypothermia- you're shaking like a leaf, I can _hear_ your teeth chattering and your lips are turning _bloody blue," _he turned and ever-so carefully reached up to touch Arthur's bottom lip with his index finger. He automatically cursed himself internally for being so impulsive, because did he _want_ to screw this up?

To his surprise, however, Arthur did not jerk away. He stared at him with large, dark eyes.

"Would you like me to help you warm these up too?" Eames said more quietly, trying to pretend he was still proving a point concerning Arthur's condition, lightly tracing the outline of Arthur's lips with his fingertips. He grinned when he felt Arthur's breath hitch, and how he gave a slight shudder that Eames _knew_ had nothing to do with the cold.

But then, a slender hand was wrapping long fingers gently around his damaged wrist, and pulling his hand away. Arthur surveyed him, almost disapproving, eyebrow raised- but with a glint in his eyes Eames had never seen before.

"Eames- you wouldn't _seriously_ consider anything of that nature when I am so clearly incapacitated, and when you yourself are hardly-"

"Wait- does this mean I can consider things of that nature when you are _not_ incapacitated?" Eames smiled devilishly, and Arthur gave an exasperated sigh, one that he knew all too well, that said - 'such a ridiculous question as that is not worthy of an answer'. But it wasn't a no.

And that gave Eames hope.

"Anyway, _you're_ shaking as well," Arthur muttered, frowning, laying Eames' palm flat on his own and watching the way it quavered slightly. Eames watched as well, faintly amused by this almost out-of-body experience, something he had no control over. No doubt an after-effect of the trauma. The trauma of- _No._ He did _not_ need to revisit that image in his mind. Preferably, he would like to _never_ have to re-visit it again, but somehow, he knew that was unlikely.

"Hmm, never happened before... you must be special darling," and the way Arthur tried to hide his small smile was utterly _priceless. _Maybe, at last, things were starting to change.

And then Arthur began to lightly trace the lines of Eames' palm with one finger, and Eames was so overcome by this sudden _spontaneous_ act of affection he could barley stop himself reaching over right there and then and kissing Arthur full on the mouth. As it was, he momentarily stopped breathing.

Arthur looked up instantly, concerned, so Eames offered him a watery grin and a slight nod.

Arthur smiled shyly, and went back to mapping out every indent, crease and scar on Eames' hand. Even the slightest suggestion of skin-on-skin contact sent shivers up Eames' spine, and he prayed that if they got out of here, _when_ they got out of here- Arthur wouldn't forget this moment. Because Eames knew he wouldn't. Not for a long time.

"Why didn't you go?" Arthur suddenly asked, eyes still downcast.

_Shit. _Eames knew instantly _exactly_ what he talking about- but this was a type of conversation they had not yet tackled, so he tensed up a little and opted for the easy way out. Denial.

"Sorry pet- you've lost me, I thought you were out of it for most of the chatter-"

" When the man offered you the chance to walk out," Arthur interrupted mildly, not fooled in the slightest, "I honestly think he might have let you, you know- he only needed one of us, and I'm not _that_ good at playing dead. He'd have found out soon enough, if he didn't already know. I was just wondering why you didn't go."

Eames let out his breath in one gusty exhale.

"Well- to be quite frank darling- _I _am the only one allowed to irritate you, and I wasn't about to leave you with some thugs where-"

"Eames." And that, right _there_, was Arthur's Don't-Bullshit-Me voice.

"I didn't want to leave you! Is that so bad? We look out for each other, you bloody _turned yourself in_ for me-" Eames frowned, defending himself.

"But you could've called Cobb- gotten us _both_ out of here, shot that bastard- why didn't you take the opportunity?" Arthur insisted, holding Eames gaze resolutely, and Eames gave a dramatic sigh in frustration because of course that plan made perfect logical sense _now_ but-

His gaze dropped to their hands and he took a deep breath to steady himself.

"Arthur- I. Thought. You. Were. Dead," and he couldn't keep the shake of pain out of his voice, "And even thought it may sound depressingly glum- outside of you there aren't really a whole lot of other people I give a shit about, or who give a shit about _me _for that matter- and when you stopped _brea-"_ and Eames broke off because his stupid voice had betrayed him _again_. He ran a hand through his hair distractedly- "well, when you weren't moving, I sort of gave up in a way. I care about you too much, you idiot. Not a lot else worth living for even if-"

But he was silenced by Arthur's lips on his, warm and soft and gentle- and a _million_ times better than he'd imagined. When Eames' brain finally caught up, he responded enthusiastically, reaching up to touch Arthur's cheek, and then round the back of Arthur's neck- but Arthur, so _annoyingly _self-controlled, was pulling away, smiling.

"Now- don't you think it's about time we broke the fuck out of here?" he said, his breath warm against Eames skin, and Eames watched in astonishment as Arthur pulled out a gun from the waistband at the back of his trousers.

"How-?" Eames started in awe-

"Turns out thugs can be rather distracted when they're busy drowning people," Arthur replied mildly, turning the gun over in his hands, the barest hint of smugness to his voice.

"You are bloody _brilliant_," Eames breathed, "have I ever told you that before?" he added fondly, reaching out to catch Arthur's jaw so he looked him in the eye.

Arthur smiled, no- _beamed_, his dark eyes bright and sparkling.

"Let's get this show on the road shall we?"

**(SEE? I told you it was a Happy Ending :) Arthur + Gun in hand = Everything Is Going To Be Just Fine**

**Hope you enjoyed that- reviews etc, are, as always, much appreciated x**


	2. Chapter 2

_**(Sorry this took so RIDICULOUSLY long- i have been putting it off *guilty*)**_

_**(Hope you like it, and, as always, please tell me what you think!)**_

Arthur pressed his ear up against the heavy metal door, eyes closed, listening intently. He swayed ever so slightly up on his feet, and Eames instinctively reached forward to place his hand on the curve of Arthur's hip. Not so much in a gesture that offered physical support, but more for reassurance.

Arthur's lips twitched in the smallest of smiles, eyes still closed, and he pulled back from the door.

"I can't hear anything," he said quietly.

_For the moment, _Eames added internally- the second they fired a shot, all hell would break lose. The clichéd Armed Thugs would descend like flies, and although Eames knew for certain that in another time, another situation, being outnumbered wouldn't have mattered all that much- they were both trained for combat against idiots- but Arthur was barley managing to stay upright he was so weak, and had more than his fair share of broken bones. Eames was exhausted and dizzy from the blow to the head; the fracture in his left wrist throbbed sporadically.

Arthur met Eames' gaze, and gestured to the door, querying.

Eames nodded, and watched as Arthur raised the gun with practiced ease and blew a neat hole in the door's lock.

The crack of gunfire echoed in the silent building, and Eames winced, knowing that there was _no chance_ Mr. World-Domination could have missed that. They had to move. Now.

Eames shouldered roughly into the door, breaking the remains of the lock with little effort and decided on going left down the empty corridor.

Arthur caught his good wrist at once and yanked him back. Eames turned, frowning,

"What?"

"That's the way they went when they left us," he said simply, and nodded in the opposite direction with a smile that veered on smug.

"Not _my_ fault I don't bloody have an eidetic memory..." Eames muttered darkly, and Arthur rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated sigh and just then-

It was as though nothing had happened at all.

Eames grinned.

Shouts from the corridor behind him made Eames start, and they set off at a run.

Arthur was obviously struggling, breathing laboured, expression fiercely controlled into something neutral, but he navigated the mess of narrow, windowless corridors and staircases as though he knew the layout by heart. Eames guessed they were underground, and although Arthur did tend to be taking stairs going up- sometimes he would choose the flights downwards before taking a new set back up again. It was at times like this that Eames swore that the eidetic memory thing couldn't be a gag.

A series of loud, distant explosions made them stop. Arthur frowned, leaning forward to catch his breath, while Eames strained his ears for something- _anything_-

"Arthur," he breathed, all of a sudden, "Arthur- I think I can hear _traffic_."

Arthur straightened up, immediately alert- and yes, there it was, the definite low level hum of vehicles, accompanied by the occasionally car horn, a faint siren.

"This way," Arthur instructed, and they veered off down a wider corridor.

To be quite honest, Eames was a little bit amazed they hadn't met _anyone_ else. No Thugs, no Mr. World Domination. Just a few distance shouts and bangs.

Christ, Eames thought with a smile, it was almost _too_ easy.

But then of course, nothing was ever easy.

They had reached the end of their corridor, the sound of traffic much louder than before, the wail of sirens distinct, a strange crackling also audible, when Arthur turned the corner and froze on the spot.

Eames almost barrelled into him, and opened his mouth to argue but-

Holy fuck.

The whole of the final corridor ahead of them was ablaze. Bright, orange flames filled the dank space, licking greedily up the walls and towards them. The heat hit Eames like a punch to the gut, rolling over him in stifling waves, and he stumbled back. Smoke furled across the ceiling, wispy tendrils reaching out above them, and snaking their way into the empty corridors.

Eames' blood ran cold.

_Of course they set the fucking place on fire, _he thought, weakly, _that would explain the explosions._

* * *

><p>Arthur sucked in a sharp breath. This was going to make everything a hell of a lot more complicated, especially as the multiple sirens that now blared through the sounds of traffic were more than <em>definitely<em> for this particular fire. There would paramedics, police, firemen, and they couldn't do anything to avoid the attention-

A flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye made Arthur look round.

Eames had taken one step back, away from the flames.

And suddenly Arthur remembered.

Something he'd read on a background check of a background check- when Eames had taunted him for days with various, mundane personal details, _clearly_ lying about half of it, and Arthur had just _had_ to find out the facts. He'd stumbled across a newspaper article from the summer of 89' with Eames' finger-prints all over it when he'd been looking, but it had never been mentioned before now-

Eames' boarding school dormitory had burned down in an accidental fire when he was 11 years old.

Only 7 boys had made it out alive.

Arthur yanked Eames back into the safeness of the dark corridor they had left behind, pushing him up against the wall, forcing him to meet Arthur's gaze. Eames was white as a sheet, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead that had nothing to do with the heat, his eyes wide and panicked.

"Arthur, I can't-"he croaked, voice utterly wrecked.

"You can and you will," Arthur told him in what would have been a firm tone if the words hadn't shook so much-

"It's the only way out. I understand why you hate this, but this is the _only_ option- I swear to you Eames. If we go now, before it gets any worse, it'll be alright-"Arthur continued, praying that Eames would see sense-

Eames closed his eyes and shook his head, his mouth a hard line of misery. He brought up a shaking hand to cup Arthur's jaw.

"You go," he murmured softly, "I'll find another way, I'll take the gun and go back, I'll-"

Arthur yanked his face away from Eames' hold, furious,

"Like _hell_, I'm letting you go back there," he hissed, "no fucking way Eames, we're getting out of this now, or we're not getting out at all."

Eames watched in horror as Arthur shrugged his jacket off his shoulders wincing as he did so, and handed it to Eames with a steely glare as though daring him to argue. He then set about un-doing his shirt buttons.

"Arthur-" Eames tried weakly, as more and more of Arthur's bruised pale chest came into view.

"Shut the fuck up," Arthur spat back. Eames wasn't the only one who swore more when he panicked. Arthur obviously realised this, because when he looked up, his expression was a little softer.

"I'm still soaking wet from that tub. This is good quality material Eames, if we hold it over our heads – it should provide some protection."

_Yeah, _Eames thought dimly, _for when we run through a fucking fire._

"But-" Eames tried again, reaching out to skim his fingers over the bare skin of Arthur's waist. Even with the shirt completely wrapped around his arms and shoulders, half of his torso would be exposed to the flames.

"Doesn't matter," Arthur said tersely, and Christ, it bloody _pained_ Eames how little regard Arthur had for his own safety sometimes. Arthur rounded the corner with grim determination, but at the last minute he paused, jaw tightening.

"Fuck Eames, it's getting bigger, we need to go _now_."

Eames swallowed round the painful lump in his throat, shaking his head again. Arthur didn't know. He couldn't understand why Eames simply _couldn't _do this. It wasn't Arthur's fault he wasn't aware of the burn scar across Eames' hip, or the fact that half of Eames' nightmares were made up of the choking screams of his childhood friends-

And why did Arthur have to keep _looking_ at him like that?

"Eames," he said, and suddenly Eames zoned out from every other noise, the fire, the sirens, the far off shouts- all he could hear was that quiet serenity in Arthur's voice, and all he could see were those dark, unfathomable eyes.

He held Arthur's gaze.

"I'm not leaving this building without you," he said, softly, "If it collapses and you die, I'm dying with you. If we go back and get shot by those thugs, I'm getting shot with you. If we stay here and do _fuck all_ you'll have to watch me bleed out because that's what's going to happen eventually."

He shifted the shirt ever so slightly off his shoulders, and _fuck_ the bullet wound was worse than Eames had thought- bright red blood running freely now down the hard planes of Arthur's torso.

"I'll die Eames. Unless we go. Now."

"Bloody hell Arthur, that's not fucking fair," Eames managed, voice tight, because he'd already nearly lost Arthur once today, and Christ, he never, _never_ wanted to go through that again, and Arthur _knew_ that-

Arthur said nothing, expression tight. Because although he didn't like it, using Eames' feelings against him, he knew he had his attention.

"Please Eames."

Eames exhaled shakily, met his burning gaze one more time, and nodded.

* * *

><p>The next few moments passed in a haze.<p>

Eames was aware that he pulled Arthur's sopping jacket up and over his head, saw Arthur do the same with his shirt, and then,

-then they were running through heat and light and pain and noise and Eames couldn't breathe, the smoke was filling his lungs, clawing its way down his throat, and he couldn't see, but he kept going, kept moving because he couldn't, _couldn't _let Arthur die.

Quite suddenly, they were out of the building, out of the fire, and Arthur slumped to his knees, desperately raking in lungful of sweet, fresh, clean air and Eames swore once, loudly.

The paramedics were on them in seconds.

2 fucking fire engines, 3 police cars and an ambulance, as well as a whole throng of spectators, hanging around just out of the danger zone. Eames was pretty sure they had never been in a more public situation.

Arthur was swamped by the medics, shouts going up about blood transfusions and immediate surgery. Eames had an oxygen mask forced over his face, and allowed himself to be sat down in the back of the ambulance.

Someone was firing questions at him, or about him- he wasn't sure- and a policeman argued briefly with one of the medics, but there was an odd ringing in Eames' ears and he took no notice of them.

Arthur was being manoeuvred onto a stretcher, expression contorted with pain, a hand going to the bullet wound in his shoulder that he had barely _mentioned_ to Eames all this time. Eames was moved urgently away from the ambulance doors, as they prepared to lift Arthur into it.

Fuck, they were going to have to think of some seriously convincing explanations for all this when they got to the hospital.

Eames watched as Arthur suddenly let the hand over his shoulder fall. The hand dropped to Arthur's right pocket, and groped around inside it for a second. Then Arthur tried the other pocket, his movements suddenly frantic. He tried the first pocket again. And again.

Even under the oxygen mask, Eames could see Arthur's face pale.

He hadn't got his totem.

Arthur met Eames' gaze for the first time since they'd left the building, eyes wide, realising Eames had guessed what was wrong-

knowing that Eames would want to do something about it.

And, as always when it came to these things, Arthur was right.

It was surprisingly easy, Eames thought, since all the attention was focused on Arthur and his shoulder. He yanked off the mask and dropped the blanket someone had draped over his shoulders. A hand found his uninjured arm, voices warned him, offering him the oxygen mask again - and then, quite suddenly-

Eames was sprinting back towards the burning building, because he _had_ to try and find Arthur's totem.

Desperate shouts followed him, screams from the on-looking crowd, and Eames realised at the last second as he wrenched free from a lunging fireman that he didn't have Arthur's wet jacket for protection-

_Fuck it,_ he thought, and barrelled through the smoking door.

* * *

><p>Arthur stared in horror as Eames disappeared back into the flames. A fresh-faced nurse next to him started to cry.<p>

It took all of two seconds for the shock to subside, and then Arthur was swinging his legs off the stretcher, yanking his damp, bloodied shirt back on, because, _Eames_, oh Jesus, it was just a _die, _what the _hell_ was did he think he was doing?-

"I don't think so sir," said a stern looking paramedic, who pushed Arthur a little too roughly back onto the stretcher. "We'll have enough to deal with when that idiot gets out than you going off burning yourself to a crisp too-"

"You don't know a fucking thing about him," Arthur said, barely masking the sudden, irrepressible surge of anger.

The paramedic looked sceptical but said nothing, and tightened his grip on Arthur's good shoulder, pressing him down into the stretcher.

And then they waited.

Fucking _waited._

Arthur could barely stand it. A couple of times he tested the medic's grip on his shoulder, but it remained firmly restraining. Of course Arthur had panicked when he couldn't find the small red cube that _lived _in his pocket, but he knew other ways of testing reality and no matter whether his sanity survived all this or not, _nothing _could ever be as important as Eames, oh god, _Eames-_

There was an eerie stillness in the air as they waited.

The road had been cornered off, so the rush of traffic was distant. The pedestrians who had been taking photos and dialling family and friends on their phones were silent. The fire crackled merrily, the hosepipes having done little to extinguish what was clearly a planned incident, and the heat was phenomenal. Smoke hung in the air, drifting lazily on a barely-there breeze, and it was only when his lungs started to protest that Arthur realised he had been holding his breath.

Suddenly, a couple of firemen burst from the doorway, and Arthur forced the paramedic to let him sit up, because Eames wasn't with them. They started shouting panicked instructions, waving people back, talking frantically into walkie-talkies, and Arthur couldn't hear what they were saying, and he wished this paramedic would _let the fuck go_, because couldn't he see that Arthur _had_ to _do something_, _had _to help-

But then half the warehouse collapsed, falling in on itself, crumpling to the floor.

White hot panic shot through Arthur like a bullet from a gun, he jolted away from the paramedic, and then was fighting, twisting to get away, tumbling off the stretcher, struggling to his feet-

_Eames, Eames, Eames, Eames oh fuck, what have you done-_

A sharp prick in his arm caught him off-guard, Arthur spun round to face the stern-faced paramedic, who didn't look in the least bit apologetic. He held up the sedative which he had just injected into Arthur's system,

"It's for your own good," he said firmly, but then was kind enough to catch Arthur when he slumped to the floor.

As the world faded into a blur of blackness with alarming speed Arthur was vaguely aware of his last coherent trains of thought-

_Eames. If you die, I swear to God I will fucking cut you._

* * *

><p>Too crisp sheets, the disgusting taste of anaesthetic in his mouth, and a horrible numbness around the area of his collar bone-<p>

_Hospital_, Arthur deduced at once, pleased his brain seemed to be in working order. _British hospital, _he added as an after-thought, taking into account the narrow bed and rock hard pillow.

He forced his eyes open, but thankfully, it appeared to be late at night. There was a faint, artificial glow from the corridor, but aside that, the ward was wonderfully dark.

Until his bedside light was switched on.

"Ow, fuck, turn it off-"Arthur grouched, his voice like sandpaper, raising his good arm to block out the harsh glare.

"Sorry pet," the voice sounded genuinely apologetic.

Wait.

_Pet?_

Arthur lowered his arm just enough to confirm that yes, the figure in the chair by his bed _was_ Eames, a _living, breathing _Eames even if his eyes were puffy and his wrist was in a cast, and then flung himself at him.

"Jesus Arthur," Eames murmured, taken aback but such a violent show of affection, but allowed himself to be hugged a little too tightly, gingerly returning it after a few moments, because, okay, maybe he needed it too.

"Sorry for putting you through that," Eames said quietly into Arthur's shoulder, "I heard they had to sedate you."

Arthur pulled back, scowling furiously.

"You know you're a complete ass, don't you? That no-one in their _right mind_ would enter a fucking _burning building_ out of choice, especially when they've got issues with fire in the first place?"

Eames eyed Arthur impassively, as though this was exactly the lecture he'd been expecting.

"Seriously? What the hell were you thinking Eames? You-you scared me _shitless _Eames, you could've _died," _Arthur was aiming for angry, but somehow ended up verging on sounding upset.

"I would hardly consider that much of a big deal, seeing as you practically drowned in front of me," Eames shot back at once, eyebrows furrowing-

"You're never going to let me live that down are you?"

"It's death Arthur! There's nothing to 'live down' about it!"

"Oh for fuck's sake, why must-"

"Excuse me gentlemen," a nurse said crisply from the doorway of the ward, "As it's actually _past_ visiting hours already" she frowned in Eames' direction at this, "could you please keep the noise down?"

Eames turned pointedly to Arthur, who looked pointedly at Eames.

The nurse gave a somewhat exasperated sigh, and walked away.

Arthur felt frustrated, painfully relieved and somehow, ridiculously tired, even though he'd only been awake for five minutes. He leant back against the pillow, flinching when his shoulder protested.

"You alright? I could get that nurse to bring some more painkillers...the doc said the operation to dig out that bullet was a tricky one," Eames' voice was soft again.

Arthur looked murderous, "Don't you think I should be asking you the same question?"

Eames chuckled, and smiled at Arthur fondly, "Oh, me? I'm fine, got a bit of a burn on the calf, but other than that-"

"Let me see," Arthur demanded at once, but was cut off when he gave a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Maybe you should get some sleep," Eames whispered, and Christ, why did his voice have to be so goddamn comforting?

"Maybe _you_ should stop being a jerk," Arthur mumbled, closing his eyes, "then maybe I'd like you more."

Eames huffed a laugh, and Arthur felt large, warm fingers twine with his.

"I think you like me plenty already," he said, knowingly, and Arthur was suddenly aware of a something, small and hard being pressed into his palm.

His totem.

Eames was unbelievable.

"Fucker," Arthur muttered sleepily, unable to stop his grin. He let his totem fall to the bed, and reached out until he was holding Eames' hand again.

* * *

><p>(<em><strong>Okay, so, I'M SORRY FOR THE ANGST, it appears I have a thing- but look, Happy Ending right? :)<strong>_


End file.
